Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

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"Mr. George Peters?" inquired Hugh. "I have an appointment."

"What name, sir?" the young, narrow-eyed man asked.

"Henfrey."

"Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Peters is expecting you," he said. And at once he
conducted him along the narrow hall to a room beyond.

The house was beautifully appointed. Everywhere was taste and luxury.
Even in the hall there were portraits by old Spanish masters and many
rare English sporting prints.

The room into which he was shown was a long apartment furnished in the
style of the Georgian era. The genuine Adams ceiling, mantelpiece,
and dead white walls, with the faintly faded carpet of old rose and
light-blue, were all in keeping. The lights, too, were shaded, and over
all was an old-world atmosphere of quiet and dignified repose.

The room was empty, and Hugh crossed to examine a beautiful little
marble statuette of a girl bather, with her arms raised and about to
dive. It was, no doubt, a gem of the art of sculpture, mounted upon a
pedestal of dark-green marble which revolved.

The whole conception was delightful, and the girl's laughing face was
most perfect in its portraiture.

Of a sudden the door reopened, and he was met by a stout, rather wizened
old gentleman with white bristly hair and closely cropped moustache, a
man whose ruddy face showed good living, and who moved with the brisk
alertness of a man twenty years his junior.

"Ah! here you are, Mr. Henfrey!" he exclaimed warmly, as he offered his
visitor his hand. Upon the latter was a well-worn black glove--evidently
to hide either some disease or deformity. "I was wondering if you
received my letter safely?"

"Yes," replied Hugh, glancing at the shrewd little man whose gloved
right hand attracted him.

"Sit down," the other said, as he closed the door. "I'm very anxious to
have a little chat with you."

Hugh took the arm-chair which Mr. Peters indicated. Somehow he viewed
the man with suspicion. His eyes were small and piercing, and his face
with its broad brow and narrow chin was almost triangular. He was a man
of considerable personality, without a doubt. His voice was high pitched
and rather petulant.

"Now," he said. "I was surprised to learn that you had left your safe
asylum in Kensington. Not only was I surprised--but I confess, I was
alarmed."

"I take it that I have to thank you for making those arrangements for
my escape from Monte Carlo?" remarked Hugh, looking him straight in the
face.

"No thanks are needed, my dear Mr. Henfrey," replied the elder man.
"So long as you are free, what matters? But I do not wish you to
deliberately run risks which are so easily avoided. Why did you leave
Abingdon Road?"

"I was advised to do so by a friend."

"Not by Miss Ranscomb, I am sure."

"No, by a Mr. Benton, whom I know."

The old man's eyebrows narrowed for a second.

"Benton?" he echoed. "Charles Benton--is he?"

"Yes. As he was a friend of my late father I naturally trust him."

Mr. Peters paused.

"Oh, naturally," he said a second later. "But where are you living now?"

Hugh told him that he was the guest of Mrs. Bond of Shapley Manor,
whereupon Mr. Peters sniffed sharply, and rising, obtained a box of good
cigars from a cupboard near the fireplace.

"You went there at Benton's suggestion?"

"Yes, I did."

Mr. Peters gave a grunt of undisguised dissatisfaction, as he curled
himself in his chair and examined carefully the young man before him.

"Now, Mr. Henfrey," he said at last. "I am very sorry for you. I happen
to know something of your present position, and the great difficulty in
which you are to-day placed by the clever roguery of others. Will you
please describe to me accurately exactly what occurred on that fateful
night at the Villa Amette? If I am to assist you further it is necessary
for you to tell me everything--remember, _everything_!"

Hugh paused and looked the stranger straight in the face.

"I thought you knew all about it," he said.

"I know a little--not all. I want to know everything. Why did you
venture there at all? You did not know the lady. It was surely a very
unusual hour to pay a call?" said the little man, his shrewd eyes fixed
upon his visitor.

"Well, Mr. Peters, the fact is that my father died in very suspicious
circumstances, and I was led to believe the Mademoiselle was cognizant
of the truth."

The other man frowned slightly.

"And so you went there with the purpose of getting the truth from her?"
he remarked, with a grunt.

Hugh nodded in the affirmative.

"What did she tell you?"

"Nothing. She was about to tell me something when the shot was fired by
someone on the veranda outside."

"H'm! Then the natural surmise would be that you, suspecting that woman
of causing your father's death, shot her because she refused to tell you
anything?"

"I repeat she was about to disclose the circumstances--to divulge her
secret, when she was struck down."

"You have no suspicion of anyone? You don't think that her manservant--I
forget the fellow's name--fired the shot? Remember, he was not in the
room at the time!"

"I feel confident that he did not. He was far too distressed at the
terrible affair," said Hugh. "The outrage must have been committed by
someone to whom the preservation of the secret of my father's end was of
most vital importance."

"Agreed," replied the man with the black glove. "The problem we have to
solve is who was responsible for your father's death."

"Yes," said Hugh. "If that shot had not been fired I should have known
the truth."

"You think, then, that Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo would have told you
the truth?" asked the bristly-haired man with a mysterious smile.

"Yes. She would."

"Well, Mr. Henfrey, I think I am not of your opinion."

"You think possibly she would have implicated herself if she had told me
the truth?"

"I do. But the chief reason I asked you to call and see me to-night is
to learn for what reason you have been induced to go on a visit to this
Mrs. Bond."

"Because Benton suggested it. He told me that Scotland Yard knew of my
presence in Kensington, making further residence there dangerous."

"H'm!" And the man with the black glove paused again.

"You don't like Benton, do you?"

"I have no real reason to dislike him. He has always been very friendly
towards me--as he was to my late father. The only thing which causes
me to hold aloof from him as much as I can is the strange clause in my
father's will."

"Strange clause?" echoed the old man. "What clause?"

"My father, in his will, cut me off every benefit he could unless I
married Benton's adopted daughter, Louise. If I marry her, then I obtain
a quarter of a million. I at first thought of disputing the will, but
Mr. Charman, our family solicitor, says that it is perfectly in order.
The will was made in Paris two years before his death. He went over
there on some financial business."

"Was Benton with him?" asked Mr. Peters.

"No. Benton went to New York about two months before."

"H'm! And how soon after your father's return did he come home?"

"I think it was about three months. He was in America five months
altogether, I believe."

The old man, still curled in his chair, smoked his cigar in silence.
Apparently he was thinking deeply.

"So Benton has induced you to go down to Shapley in order that you may
be near his adopted daughter, in the hope that you will marry her! In
the meantime you are deeply in love with Lady Ranscomb's daughter.
I know her--a truly charming girl. I congratulate you," he added,
as though speaking to himself. "But the situation is indeed a very
complicated one."

"For me it is terrible. I am living under a cloud, and in constant fear
of arrest. What can be done?"

"I fear nothing much can be done at present," said the old man, shaking
his head gravely. "I quite realize that you are victim of certain
enemies who intend to get hold of your father's fortune. It is for us to
combat them--if we can."

"Then you will continue to help me?" asked Hugh eagerly, looking into
the mysterious face of the old fellow who wore the black glove.

"I promise you my aid," he replied, putting out his gloved hand as
pledge.

Then, as Hugh took it, he looked straight into those keen eyes, and
asked:

"You have asked me many questions, sir, and I have replied to them all.
May I ask one of you--my friend?"

"Certainly," replied the older man.

"Then am I correct in assuming that you are actually the person of whom
I have heard so much up and down Europe--the man of whom certain men
and women speak with admiration, and with bated breath--the man known in
certain circles as--as _Il Passero_?"

The countenance of the little man with the bristly white hair and the
black glove relaxed into a smile, as, still holding Hugh's hand in
friendship, he replied:

"Yes. It is true. Some know me as 'The Sparrow!'"

NINETEENTH CHAPTER

THE SPARROW

Hugh Henfrey was at last face to face with the most notorious criminal
in Europe!

The black-gloved hand of the wizened, bristly-haired old man was the
hand that controlled a great organization spread all over Europe--an
organization which only knew Il Passero by repute, but had never seen
him in the flesh.

Yet there he was, a discreet, rather petulant old gentleman, who lived
at ease in an exclusive West End street, and was entirely unsuspected!

When "Mr. Peters" admitted his identity, Hugh drew a long breath. He
was staggered. He was profuse in his thanks, but "The Sparrow" merely
smiled, saying:

"It is true that I and certain of my friends make war upon Society--and
more especially upon those who have profiteered upon those brave fellows
who laid down their lives for us in the war. Whatever you have heard
concerning me I hope you will forgive, Mr. Henfrey. At least I am the
friend of those who are in distress, or who are wrongly judged--as you
are to-day."

"I have heard many strange things concerning you from those who have
never met you," Hugh said frankly. "But nothing to your detriment.
Everyone speaks of you, sir, as a gallant sportsman, possessed of an
almost uncanny cleverness in outwitting the authorities."

"Oh, well!" laughed the shrewd old man. "By the exercise of a little
wit, and the possession of a little knowledge of the _personnel_ of the
police, one can usually outwit them. Curious as you may think it, a very
high official at Scotland Yard dined with me here only last night. As I
am known as a student of criminology, and reputed to be the author of
a book upon that subject, he discussed with me the latest crime problem
with which he had been called upon to deal--the mysterious murder of a
young girl upon the beach on the north-east coast. His frankness rather
amused me. It was, indeed, a quaint situation," he laughed.

"But does he not recognize you, or suspect?" asked Hugh.

"Why should he? I have never been through the hands of the police in my
life. Hence I have never been photographed, nor have my finger prints
been taken. I merely organize--that is all."

"Your organization is most wonderful, Mr.--er--Mr. Peters," declared the
young man. "Since my flight I have had opportunity of learning something
concerning it. And frankly, I am utterly astounded."

The old man's face again relaxed into a sphinx-like smile.

"When I order, I am obeyed," he said in a curious tone. "I ordered your
rescue from that ugly situation in Monte Carlo. You and Miss Ranscomb no
doubt believed the tall man who went to the ball at Nice as a cavalier
to be myself. He did not tell you anything to the contrary, because I
only reveal my identity to persons whom I can trust, and then only in
cases of extreme necessity."

"Then I take it, sir, that you trust me, and that my case is one of
extreme necessity?"

"It is," was The Sparrow's reply. "At present I can see no solution of
the problem. It will be best, perhaps, for you to remain where you
are for the present," he added. He did not tell the young man of his
knowledge of Benton and his hostess.

"But I am very desirous of seeing Miss Ranscomb," Hugh said. "Is there
any way possible by which I can meet her without running too great a
risk?"

The Sparrow reflected in silence for some moments.

"To-day is Wednesday," he remarked slowly at last. "Miss Ranscomb is in
London. That I happen to know. Well, go to the Bush Hotel, in Farnham,
on Friday afternoon and have tea. She will probably motor there and take
tea with you."

"Will she?" cried Hugh eagerly. "Will you arrange it? You are, indeed, a
good Samaritan!"

The little old man smiled.

"I quite understand that this enforced parting under such circumstances
is most unfortunate for you both," he said. "But I have done, and will
continue to do, all I can in your interest."

"I can't quite make you out, Mr. Peters," said the young man. "Why
should you evince such a paternal interest in me?"

The Sparrow did not at once reply. A strange expression played about his
lips.

"Have I not already answered that question twice?" he asked. "Rest
assured, Mr. Henfrey, that I have your interests very much at heart."

"You have some reason for that, I'm sure."

"Well--yes, I have a reason--a reason which is my own affair." And he
rose to wish his visitor "good-night."

"I'll not forget to let Miss Ranscomb know that you will be at Farnham.
She will, no doubt, manage to get her mother's car for the afternoon,"
he said. "Good-night!" and with his gloved fingers he took the young
man's outstretched hand.

The instant he heard the front door close he crossed to the telephone,
and asking for a number, told the person who answered it to come round
and see him without a moment's delay.

Thus, while Hugh Henfrey was seated beside Mead as Mrs. Bond's car went
swiftly towards Kensington, a thin, rather wiry-looking man of middle
age entered The Sparrow's room.

The latter sprang to his feet quickly at sight of his visitor.

"Ah! Howell! I'm glad you've come. Benton and Molly Maxwell are
deceiving us. They mean mischief!"

The man he addressed as Howell looked aghast.

"Mischief?" he echoed. "In what way?"

"I've not yet arrived at a full conclusion. But we must be on the alert
and ready to act whenever the time is ripe. You know what they did over
that little affair in Marseilles not so very long ago? They'll repeat,
if we're not very careful. That girl of Benton's they are using as a
decoy--and she's a dangerous one."

"For whom?"

"For old Henfrey's son."

The Sparrow's visitor gave vent to a low whistle.

"They intend to get old Henfrey's money?"

"Yes--and they will if we are not very wary," declared the little,
bristly-haired old gentleman known as The Sparrow. "The boy has been
entirely entrapped. They made one _faux pas_, and it is upon that
we may--if we are careful--get the better of them. I don't like the
situation at all. They have a distinctly evil design against the boy."

"Benton and Molly are a combination pretty hard to beat," remarked Mr.
Howell. "But I thought they were friends of ours."

"True. They were. But after the little affair in Marseilles I don't
trust them," replied The Sparrow. "When anyone makes a slip, either
by design or sheer carelessness, or perhaps by reason of inordinate
avarice, then I always have to safeguard myself. I suspect--and my
suspicion usually proves correct."

His midnight visitor drew a long breath.

"What we all say of you is that The Sparrow is gifted with an extra
sense," he said.

The little old man with the gloved hand smiled contentedly.

"I really don't know why," he said. "But I scent danger long before
others have any suspicion of it. If I did not, you would, many of you
who are my friends, have been in prison long ago."

"But you have such a marvellous memory."

"Memory!" he echoed. "Quite wrong. I keep everything filed. I work
yonder at my desk all day. See this old wardrobe," and he crossed to a
long, genuine Jacobean wardrobe which stood in a corner and, unlocking
it, opened the carved doors. "There you see all my plans arranged and
docketed. I can tell you what has been attempted to-night. Whether the
coup is successful I do not yet know."

Within were shelves containing many bundles of papers, each tied with
pink tape in legal fashion. He took out a small, black-covered index
book and, after consulting it, drew out a file of papers from the second
shelf.

These he brought to his table, and opened.

"Ah, yes!" he said, knitting his brows as he read a document beneath the
green-shaded electric lamp. "You know Franklyn, don't you?"

"Harold Franklyn?"

"Yes. Well, he's in the Tatra, in Hungary. He and Matthews are with
three Austrian friends of ours, and to-night they are at the Castle of
Szombat, belonging to Count Zsolcza, the millionaire banker of Vienna.
The Countess has some very valuable jewels, which were indicated to
me several months ago by her discharged lady's maid--through another
channel, of course. I hope that before dawn the jewels will be no longer
at Szombat, for the Count is an old scoundrel who cornered the people's
food in Austria just before the Armistice and is directly responsible
for an enormous amount of suffering. The Countess was a cafe singer in
Budapest. Her name was Anna Torna."

Mr. Howell sat open-mouthed. He was a crook and the bosom friend of the
great Passero. Like all others who knew him, he held the master criminal
in awe and admiration. The Sparrow, whatever he was, never did a
mean action and never took advantage of youth or inexperience. To his
finger-tips he was a sportsman, whose chief delight in life was to
outwit and puzzle the police of Europe. In the underworld he was
believed to be fabulously wealthy, as no doubt he was. To the outside
world he was a very rich old gentleman, who contributed generously to
charities, kept two fine cars, and, as well as his town house, had a
pretty place down in Gloucestershire, and usually rented a grouse moor
in Scotland, where he entertained Mr. Howell and several other of his
intimate friends who were in the same profitable profession as himself,
and in whose "business" he held a controlling interest.

In Paris, Rome, Madrid, or Brussels, he was well known as an idler who
stayed at the best hotels and patronized the most expensive restaurants,
while his villa on the Riviera he had purchased from a Roumanian prince
who had ruined himself by gambling. His gloved hand--gloved because of
a natural deformity--was the hand which controlled most of the greater
robberies, for his war upon society was constantly far-reaching.

"Is Franklyn coming straight back?" asked Howell.

"That is the plan. He should leave Vienna to-morrow night," said The
Sparrow, again consulting the papers. "And he comes home with all speed.
But first he travels to Brussels, and afterwards to The Hague, where he
will hand over Anna Torna's jewels to old Van Ort, and they'll be cut
out of all recognition by the following day. Franklyn will then cross
from the Hook to Harwich. He will wire me his departure from Vienna.
He's bought a car for the job, and will have to abandon it somewhere
outside of Vienna, for, as in most of our games, time is the essence of
the contract," and the old fellow laughed oddly.

"I thought Franklyn worked with Molly," said Mr. Howell.

"So he does. I want him back, for I've a delicate mission for him,"
replied the sphinx-like man known as The Sparrow.

Mr. Howell, at the invitation of the arch-criminal, helped himself to a
drink. Then The Sparrow said:

"You are due to leave London the day after to-morrow on that little
business in Madrid. You must remain in town. I may want you."

"Very well. But Tresham is already there. I had a letter from him from
the Palace Hotel yesterday."

"I will recall him by wire to-morrow. Our plans are complete. The
Marquis's picture will still hang in his house until we are ready for
it. It is the best specimen of Antonio del Rincon, and will fetch a big
price in New York--when we have time to go and get it," he laughed.

"Is Franklyn to help the Maxwell woman again?" asked Mr. Howell, who was
known as an expert valuer of antiques and articles of worth, and who had
an office in St. James's. He only dealt in collectors' pieces, and
in the trade bore an unblemished reputation, on account of his expert
knowledge and his sound financial condition. He bought old masters
and pieces of antique silver now and then, but none suspected that the
genuine purchases at big prices were only made in order to blind his
friends as to the actual nature of his business.

Indeed, to his office came many an art gem stolen from its owner on the
Continent and smuggled over by devious ways known only to The Sparrow
and his associates. And just as ingeniously the stolen property was sent
across to America, so well camouflaged that the United States Customs
officers were deceived. With pictures it was their usual method to
coat the genuine picture with a certain varnish, over which one of the
organization, an old artist living in Chelsea, would paint a modern and
quite passable picture and add a new canvas back.

Then, on its arrival in America, the new picture was easily cleaned
off, the back removed, and lo! it was an old master once more ready for
purchase at a high price by American collectors.

Truly, the gloved hand of The Sparrow was a master hand. He had brought
well-financed and well-organized theft to a fine art. His "indicators,"
both male and female, were everywhere, and cosmopolitan as he was
himself, and a wealthy man, he was able to direct--and finance--all
sorts of coups, from a barefaced jewel theft to the forgery of American
banknotes.

And yet, so strange and mysterious a personality was he that not twenty
persons in the whole criminal world had ever met him in the flesh. The
tall, good-looking man whom Dorise knew as the White Cavalier was one of
four other men who posed in his stead when occasion arose.

Scotland Yard, the Surete in Paris, the Pubblica Sicurezza in Rome, and
the Detective Department of the New York police knew, quite naturally,
of the existence of the elusive Sparrow, but none of them had been able
to trace him.

Why? Because he was only the brains of the great, widespread criminal
organization. He remained in smug respectability, while others beneath
his hand carried out his orders--they were the servants, well-paid too,
and he was the master.

No more widespread nor more wonderful criminal combine had ever been
organized than that headed by The Sparrow, the little old man whom
Londoners believed to be Cockney, yet Italians believed to be pure-bred
Tuscan, while in Paris he was a true Parisian who could speak the argot
of the Montmartre without a trace of English accent.

As a politician, as a City man, as a professional man, The Sparrow,
whose real name was as obscure as his personality, would have made his
mark. If a lawyer, he would have secured the honour of a knighthood--or
of a baronetcy, and more than probable he would have entered Parliament.

The Sparrow was a philosopher, and a thorough-going Englishman to
boot. Though none knew it, he was able by his unique knowledge of the
underworld of Europe to give information--as he did anonymously to the
War Office--of certain trusted persons who were, at the moment of the
outbreak of war, betraying Britain's secrets.

The Department of Military Operations was, by means of the anonymous
information, able to quash a gigantic German plot against us; but they
had been unable to discover either the true source of their information
or the identity of their informant.

"I'd better be off. It's late!" said Mr. Howell, after they had been in
close conversation for nearly half an hour.

"Yes; I suppose you must go," The Sparrow remarked, rising. "I must get
Franklyn back. He must get to the bottom of this curious affair. I
fell that I am being bamboozled by Benton and Molly Maxwell. The boy is
innocent--he is their victim," he added; "but if I can save him, by
gad! I will! Yet it will be difficult. There is much trouble ahead, I
anticipate, and it is up to us, Howell, to combat it!"

"Perhaps Franklyn can assist us?"

"Perhaps. I shall not, however, know before he gets back here from his
adventures in Hungary. But I tell you, Howell, I am greatly concerned
about the lad. He has fallen into the hands of a bad crowd--a very bad
crowd indeed."

TWENTIETH CHAPTER

THE MAN WHO KNEW

Late on Thursday night Dorise and her mother were driving home from Lady
Strathbayne's, in Grosvenor Square, where they had been dining. It was
a bright starlight night, and the myriad lamps of the London traffic
flashed past the windows as Dorise sat back in silence.

She was tired. The dinner had been followed by a small dance, and she
had greatly enjoyed it. For once, George Sherrard, her mother's friend,
had not accompanied them. As a matter of fact, Lady Strathbayne disliked
the man, hence he had not been invited.

Suddenly Lady Ranscomb exclaimed:

"I heard about Hugh Henfrey this evening."

"From whom?" asked her daughter, instantly aroused.

"From that man who took me in to dinner. I think his name was Bowden."

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